As Tip stepped toward the tent flap he said, 'You're all burnt, Bekki-'
'Not as bad as the Ghul,' growled Bekki. 'I am alive; he is not.'
Gripping his war hammer, Bekki cried, 'Follow me,' and he charged from the tent and in among the shouting foe, his maul smashing left and right. And with Tipperton on his heels, Bekki battered his way to the line of burning wagons and out.
Yet just as he passed a blazing wain, a Ruck leapt at his back, long iron spike raised to stab. thuk!
Tipperton's shaft slammed through the Ruck's back, the arrow head to punch out through his breastbone, and he looked down at the out-jutting, grume-covered point as the spike fell from his nerveless fingers to clang upon the stone, the Ruck to collapse after.
Bekki whirled in time to see, and grunted his thanks.
'I told you Rucks were dangerous,' shouted Tip above the roar of battle.
The last of the Trolls scrambled up the mountain slopes after his fleeing kindred, his war bar abandoned in his haste to escape, for although he was but barely scathed by axe and hammer and flail, he too feared the crimson streaks which could set his kind afire.
And seeing the Trolls fleeing, the Rucks turned tail and ran, and though Ghfils on Helsteeds shouted and Hloks flailed about with whips, shrieking in fear the Rucks hurtled away from the Daelsmen and Dwarves.
Through the remainder of the Horde the wailing Rucks ran, and their kindred, seeing panic, fled with them as well, and the battle they were winning instead became a rout, as toward the east and the road the Swarm fled.
The field they left behind was littered with the dead and wounded from both sides.
And dawn finally came to the firelit vale, pressing the shadows back.
Chapter 39
contents – previous
The carnage was horrific, the dead and the dying scattered across the field, the wounded crying out in agony, calling for aid. Riderless horses limped midst the slaughter, though other mounts lay dead. And mid the butchery a squealing Helsteed thrashed with broken legs.
O'erwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the task, healers moved among the casualties, rendering what aid they could. Comrades also were afield, giving comfort to their brethren. Still others gathered the stray mounts and led them aside, where they, too, could receive aid.
Squads of warriors with knives or spears in hand strode among the felled, their work bloody and grim.
'Come,' gritted Bekki, 'we have a task to do.'
Tipperton looked up at the Dwarf, an unspoken question in his eyes, yet he followed Bekki into the field.
They came to a downed Ruck, hamstrung by someone's blade, the Ruck feebly scrabbling at the ground and trying to crawl. Bekki grabbed the foe by the hair and jerked his head back and 'Bekki, don't!' cried Tip above the Ruck's piglike squeal.
– slit his throat, blackish blood to spew outward.
Bekki dropped the now dead Ruck and looked at Tipper-ton, the buccan pale and trembling and on the verge of vomiting. 'Would you have me let him live, heal him?'
'I, uh-'
'He is one of the Grg, a creature of Gyphon,' said Bekki, as if that explained all.
'Oh, Bekki, it's not right. He couldn't even defend himself.'
'Nevertheless, it must be done,' growled Bekki, moving on.
'I can't go with you, Bekki. Not to do this,' said Tip, turning away.
Bekki paused. 'Did you not tell me on our journey to Mineholt North, Tipperton, that when your mate was slain, you wanted them all dead-all the Ukhs, Hroks, Khols, Helsteeds, Trolls, Rivermen, Kistanee, Chabbans, Hyra- nee, and aught else who sided with Gyphon?'
Tip turned once more toward Bekki. 'Yes, Bekki, I said that once. Yet I have since found it gives me no satisfaction to kill Foul Folk. Vengeance does nothing to ease a wounded heart. And no matter how many I slay, it will not bring Rynna back.' Tears ran down Tipperton's face. He gestured about the bloody field. 'To kill in battle is a necessary thing. But this, this thing you do, this cutting of throats of those who cannot defend themselves, this is murder… just as was the case of the surrogate, for he was without wit, an innocent victim of Modru, and could not defend himself… and neither can these felled foe.'
Bekki ground his teeth. 'You have much to learn, Tipperton, for in war the object is to win.'
'Even at the cost of the innocent, the defenseless? Does a lofty goal excuse the deeds, no matter how evil they are?'
Bekki did not answer, but instead he stared beyond Tipperton, his mouth falling open, agape.
Tipperton turned, and up the slope the gates of Mineholt North swung wide, and beings covered from head to toe in concealing veils came forth, guarded by fierce Dwarven warriors.
And Tipperton knew these were the Chakia, the protected, the sheltered, the shielded, the cherished.
And they moved into the slaughterground, kneeling here and there to aid wounded allies, their deft hands bandaging, applying unguents and salves, and washing clean and stitching closed the cloven wounds.
Bekki hastily sheathed his dagger and took up his war hammer. 'I must go with the Chakka and ward the perimeter of this field.'
And moving as one, Dwarven warriors set an armed ring of steel about the battleground, for they would have no enemy come upon their beloved Chakia. And in this they were joined by the Dylvana.
'I will aid the healers,' called Tipperton after Bekki. And as he turned, he scanned the slope for sign of Beau. And then Tip's gaze found him-'Oh, no!' Tipperton began running among the wounded and dead and dying, down toward the buccan carrying his satchel and trotting through the field alongside Loric, who bore Phais cradled in his arms, the Dara, bare to the waist, not moving at all.
While all about the bloody work of squads of Daelsmen and Baeron went on, making certain all Foul Folk were dead-all Rucks, Hloks, Ghuls, Helsteeds, and even the burnt Trolls.
'Beau, Beau, Lady Phais, is she-'
'No, Tip, but she might be if we don't get some gwyn-thyme in her. I think the arrow was poisoned. We're taking her to the Dwarvenholt.'
'Follow me,' said Tip. 'I know a bit of where we need to go: the kitchens, they'll have hot water.'
'Hot coals, too, I would think,' said Beau. 'We need to cauterize.'
Up the slope and through the gates and into the mineholt Tip led them, and then through corridors and to a kitchen.
Veiled Chakia were within.
Loric gently lay Phais on a table, while Beau dragged a chair alongside. As he climbed onto the seat, he called for hot water and a clean teacup and a small bowl, and he rummaged through his bag and drew out a short, thin iron rod with a leather-wrapped fired-clay handle. 'Here, Tip. Find some hot coals and stick this in. When the iron glows yellow, let me know.'
As Tip turned, a Chakian came to the table, bearing a basin of hot water as well as a cup and bowl. Too, she bore soap and towels. 'You must thoroughly wash your hands,' she softly said through her concealing veils, 'as must all who will tend this Lady Elf.'
Beau looked up, his amber eyes widening slightly. 'Are you a healer? I could use some help.'
Silently the Chakian began to wash her hands, and she set the soap before Beau.
Beau took out the small silver case from his breast pocket and extracted a portion of the precious golden mint, and dropped it into the cup. He poured hot water in after. A refreshing fragrance filled the air.
While it steeped, he washed and dried his hands. He turned back to Phais. 'She's bled a lot,' he muttered. 'Pray to Adon it was enough to leach the poison out.' Beau took up the cup and looked at the Chakian. 'Yet the wound is deep and so we've got to get this down her.'
The Chakian reached out and took the cup and stepped away and fetched a small spoon, then crossed back to the table and began carefully spooning limited amounts into Phais, the Dara swallowing reflexively.
